


Battle Scars

by gettingby



Series: Battle Scars [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Almost Vomiting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Crying, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Riding, Rimming, Some Plot, but not during sex, intimacy issues, working through trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettingby/pseuds/gettingby
Summary: Set Post-Wayward Son.Since Simon and Baz came back from America, they've learned to communicate better, and their physical relationship has been progressing. Only, there's a bit of a catch. One they don't work out until a year later.(In which Simon and Baz only hook up after battles, and eventually they have to deal with it.)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Battle Scars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187390
Comments: 26
Kudos: 213





	Battle Scars

**Author's Note:**

> whew! this is the longest fic I've ever published. (not counting my Naruto high school AU from the seventh grade.)
> 
> I've honestly been working on this since I finished wayward son, in some form or the other, and I'm just glad I actually got it out. I hope y'all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> shoutout to my "sexy friend ann (she's single ladies) (her words)" for beta-ing without knowing anything about this fandom. I appreciate that you complimented all the aspects of this fic that were taken directly from the books.

**SIMON**

If you’re working the closing shift, you can’t be sure when you’ll actually get home. That’s why I had to work closing the first few weeks - because I was new, and nobody else wanted to do it.

After six months, I’m _still_ doing it.

The cafe closes at five. After five, I rinse the coffee pots, sweep the floor, and dust the tables. Take out the rubbish, count the cash, and refill the napkins and sugar. Then - my second favourite part of the evening - I check the notice board to make sure no one’s posted anything profane.

I tear down Penny’s Dick of the Day. She’s taking Anatomy this term, so they’ve been getting more realistic, and it’s unnerving. The one I’m holding now looks a bit like Baz. (His dick, I mean.)

Once I Snapchat the drawing to Penny and rip it into a million pieces that my boss will _never_ see, it’s time for my favourite part - taking home the leftovers.

My co-worker Erica normally wrinkles her nose at leftovers. The cafe is successful enough that we sell out of most everything by closing time - except the gluten-free bread, and cups of grapes that have gone mushy. Fortunately, I don’t mind either.

Today, though, by some miracle, there’s a blueberry scone left - just the one. (Not as good as Cook Pritchard’s, but the Normals are _nearly_ there.) I’ve just got out my tongs when the bell over the door rings.

Erica rushes in. “Simon, I’m so glad I caught you!”

She pulls out a flyer from her bag and sticks it exactly where Penny’s drawing had been. “Sorry, I just had to get these out for the Uni Activities Board. I completely forgot about them during my shift.” She glances over at the case and her eyes light up. “Shit, I’m _starving_.”

I nod, because Erica is a nice person, and I don’t have some sort of monopoly on leftovers. And then I watch her take the last blueberry scone, and disappear as quickly as she came.

 _It’s all right,_ I tell myself. _It’s just a pastry. There will be more tomorrow._

I bite into the gluten-free sourdough and nearly chip a tooth.

_Actually, fuck this._

I tear down Erica’s stupid flyer as I storm out.

*

I feel like a right tit by the time I get home. I smooth out the crumpled paper against the counter as best I can - I’ll have to ask Penny or Baz to magic away the wrinkles so that I can post it back up tomorrow.

I would have reacted maturely to Erica’s visit had my day not been awful. First, I got an earful for mixing up Posh Banker and Fit Professor’s orders, and then, I spilled the caramel syrup - there’s still sugar gunk all over my trainers. I haven’t made a mess like that since my first day, and that was because my wings burst out when the bell rang. (After that, I had to tape my wings down and deal with the droids spell until Penny figured out something else.)

I’m grateful, because taping my wings down makes me feel really claustrophobic. While I found some good athletic tapes, they still got all damp and itchy and made it hard for me to sit still without squirming. It made it hard to focus. Kind of like today, except I don’t have the excuse of physical discomfort.

I have been a bit off all day though - restless, and too hot and cold all at the same time. When Penny gets home, I tell her I’m feeling ill.

“Hm. You are kind of flushed, Simon.” Penny fiddles with her ring, and it glows purple. I hold very still as she presses it against my forehead.

“ **That’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit.** ” She squints at my forehead, where I know my temperature has appeared in small, black lettering. (That’s how they checked for fevers at Watford. It drove Agatha mad. “Thermometers. Exist!” She’d grumble every time she had to **out, damned spot** the numbers off of her face.) 

“Hold on, I’ve got to put it in my phone to convert it,” Penny says “You’d think they’d have come up with a Celsius version of this spell already. Alright, that’s 37.2. You’re not running a fever, at least. Are you sneezing? Coughing? Does your throat hurt?”

I sniff, then swallow - just to make sure. “No. I just feel off.”

“Well, have some tea,” Penny says. “The pot’s still hot.”

I pour myself a cup of Earl Grey and inhale deeply. The smell of bergamot doesn’t calm me like it usually does. If anything, it puts me more on edge.

I bring my tea and some biscuits to my bedroom and settle into my rumpled blankets. My phone buzzes just as I’m replying to Baz’s last text, with an email from Dr. Wellbelove - forwarding an article about Baz, Penny and me in the _Magickal Record_.

I skim it quickly - it gushes about bipartisanship and a new era of peace over the World of Mages. _“If a Bunce, a Pitch and the Mage’s Heir can work together, perhaps there is hope for the future after all.”_

I grimace at the photo. Penny’s face is barely high up enough to fit in the frame. She looks cross, and I’m smiling awkwardly. Baz, meanwhile, looks like he’s in an ad for expensive cologne, even though he’s not even looking at the camera. Typical.

We - the Bunce, the Pitch, and the Mage’s Heir (it still makes me wince) - defeated the Next Blood in May. I remember because it was right before final exams, which were an awful struggle considering the circumstances. I guess I’d never really appreciated the special treatment I got at Watford until then. I don’t even think I _took_ half of my exams back then.

After that, the goblin attacks really picked up, until exactly four weeks ago when the Coven signed a treaty with the goblins. Baz, Penny and I were invited to a fancy meeting about it, and that’s when the _Record_ took this photo.

That’s when I first started to feel restless. Like I don’t know what to do with myself when I can’t fight.

The last time I was in a proper fight was right before the treaty passed. Three goblins jumped Baz and me on our way back from the pub. Baz was a bit tipsy - he’d run off into an alley because he wanted to drain one particular rat. ( _”It’s mocking me, Simon!”_ ) And the green bastards just popped out from behind the bins.

Even though the Mage is dead and I don’t have magic, the goblins still had a reward on my head. Apparently, goblins think that if you grind up dragon parts and drink them, your prick gets bigger. (I nearly died of embarrassment when the entire Coven - including Headmistress Bunce and Dr. Wellbelove - discussed goblin pricks in relation to me.)

If Baz hadn’t been with me that night, I would definitely be goblin Viagra by now. I grabbed a broken coat hanger from the bin and ran it through one’s eye, but Baz took down the other two. He conjured up flames as easily as breathing. In the dark, the firelight brought all his features - sharp cheekbones, lean arms, the cleft of his collarbone - into stark relief. I didn’t even wait for the third goblin to hit the ground before I shoved Baz up against the wall and — well.

That’s new too, sort of.

I guess it started in America - kissing furiously every time we won a battle. Then we got back to the UK, and the Next Blood came here too. The fighting escalated, and with it our weird new habit.

Then one day, Baz and I were surveilling the big guns of the Next Blood at a vampire bar in SoHo. We were just supposed to be spying, but one thing led to another, and the whole mission went to hell in a handbasket.

I staked Jensen with a Smirnoff shard. Baz ripped Parker’s head off with his bare hands. By the time we were finished, everyone else had fled.

Just the two of us were left, alone in that dimly lit basement. I had blood all over my shirt, and we were surrounded by a _lot_ of expensive liquor.

Obviously, we had sex.

And then we did it again. And again. In stairwells and alleys and abandoned buildings. We even had sex in the Wavering Wood - twice!

That’s all to say, the puzzle pieces are coming together in my head. I flop back on my bed and groan.

*

Baz comes over the next morning, freshly showered and hair damp. I kiss him hello and get a strong whiff of his posh shampoo. I can’t stop staring at him while we make lunch - I almost nick myself chopping the aubergine. (That makes me think about bleeding, and Baz licking it up, which does not help my problem.)

I’m not subtle, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He licks the stirring spoon clean, and my heart nearly jumps out of my chest. (Can’t he hear it?) Then he washes the dishes. I stare at his elegant hands as he squeezes the sponge, watch his forearms flex as he scrubs stuck-on onions and tomato off the pan, and nearly drop the dishes I'm drying.

Baz complains through lunch - something about an annoying co-worker at his internship - but I’m extremely distracted. I mumble, “Cool, that’s great,” when he pauses for a second. The glare I get in return assures me that was not the appropriate response. 

We settle on the couch after. Baz puts on a Netflix dating show (he’s addicted to those). I squirm the whole time, arguing with myself silently.

_Get closer. No, back away!_

_No, kiss him. Or maybe you should brush your teeth first? There was a lot of garlic in the sauce._

_Does garlic bother vampires?_

_Probably he wouldn’t have put it in the sauce if it did._

Shit. This is ridiculous.

Baz and I have done a lot of things, sexually - well, the stuff that isn’t too uncomfortable without a bed. A heated snog on the sofa should be second nature to us, but we haven’t done it since - well, since the first month I lived here, honestly, before my worst depressive episode and the trip to America that got us embroiled in the Next Blood’s war in the first place.

I can’t bring myself to move any closer, though. Because we’re here, in my flat, where everything seems a little too real - and because I’m afraid of how Baz will react.

I’ve been a fumbling, tetchy mess recently. But Baz? He’s the same as ever. Calm, collected, not a wrinkle on his shirt or a hair out of place.

I don’t think he’s even noticed that we haven’t been shagging.

What if he doesn’t want to anymore? What if he’s weirded out that _I_ want to? I’d die of humiliation if I had to explain anything.

So we sit, six inches apart, watching strangers snog with abandon. We do kiss goodbye, and I don’t want to stop when we do, but Baz breaks away first.

“I’m going to be late for class.”

I’m working the afternoon shift at the cafe, so after Baz leaves I get in the shower. I don’t usually wank here, but today I spend way too long in the bathroom with my eyes closed, calling back the memory of Baz’s scent and imagining his hand as my own. When I finish, all I can think about is how poorly my fantasies compare to the real thing.

*

By the time I get dressed, I’m already running late. I grab Erica’s flyer from Penny - she spelled away the wrinkles - as I dash out the door. “You’re welcome!” she calls after me.

I didn’t read the flyer when I tore it down - I was angry, and it was dark out. I glance over it now on my walk to work.

_A DAY OF FUN IN THE SUN!_

_Special Uni Deal - This Weekend Only_

It’s an advert for Thorpe Park. I guess the Uni Activities Board worked out some type of discount for us - a ticket’s twenty quid if you’re a student.

I’ve never been. (Obviously.) I wanted to ride roller coasters when we went to California - I mean, we were so close to Disneyland - but it didn’t seem like the time. We’d have to steal the tickets, and I’d just been shot. Plus, what would we have done with Shepard?

It’s a pity, because I think I’d like roller coasters. It’s some pointless fun. You think you’re going to die, and then you don’t - that’s what I’m best at.

**BAZ**

Snow calls me mid-wank.

I panic. Even though I should have expected this, honestly. Snow’s phone calls are blessedly frequent, and these days, I’m _always_ mid-wank.

We’d had a robust sex life until the past month. It wasn’t exactly romantic - no candle-lit dinners or satin sheets - but I’d have sex in a sewage treatment centre if it could be with Simon.

I’m barely holding it together anymore. I went over to Snow’s yesterday, and I could hardly keep my hands off of him. I think he could tell, and it made him nervous. He kept staring at me and looking away when I caught him, and I could hear his heart pounding. I felt awful about it and bowed out with the most chaste kiss I could manage.

I’d never rush him or pressure him into anything. We were tipsy the first time, which I feel bad about. But I always let him initiate, let him take the lead. I want him to be as comfortable as possible. It’s mortifying how much I want him. He’d run for the hills if I actually voiced it - so it's good to set this artificial limit on myself.

I take a few breaths and clear my throat before answering. My voice is cool and even when I do. “Snow?”

“Hi, Baz. Are you busy this weekend?”

By the time we hang up, we’re going on a date. A proper date, like a Hollywood coming-of-age film.

I lay back on the bed, as breathless as if I’d actually come.

We’ve been through a lot, but this? I’d live a life of celibacy if I could have this. A happy Snow. Who wants to spend time with me. In public, as a couple.

Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

*

“It’s a train, then a bus. I brought cash, since we can’t use our Oyster cards…”

It’s two hours earlier than I’d normally be awake on a Saturday, especially since this week at my internship has been hellish. But Snow is babbling, and it’s unfairly adorable, and this is the only thing that’s better than staying in bed. (Except, maybe, staying in bed with Snow.) 

He’s nervous. He’s pink all over, and he’s written down directions and a packing list on a slip of paper. He even printed out the map. I want him to know that even if this date were a disaster, it would still be one of the best days of my life. (Also, it would have to be a disaster of massive proportions to compare to our other misadventures.)

He’s wearing a hat that belongs at the safari, and a purple bum bag. “It’s Penny’s,” he explains. “She spelled it to be bigger on the inside. It’ll make sure our phones don’t fall out on the rides.” He reaches in and produces the largest tube of sunscreen I’ve ever seen.

“I’m not letting you get burned again,” he says seriously. “I even bought the fancy kind you use.”

I smear an ungodly amount onto my face and body. Simon clears his throat when I try to hand the tube back to him.

“You missed a spot on your neck,” he says. His voice is low. His heart’s beating faster. “Can I get it for you?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

He worries his lip for a minute, and I’m afraid I’ve said the wrong thing. That I’ve reminded him of kissing, and sex, and spooked him for the hundredth time.

But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, his gaze becomes more intense as he steps closer to me, enough that his curls are tickling my nose.

The snap of the lid sounds like gunfire.

He brings one hand to cup my cheek. The other has sunscreen on it, and he rubs it into the back of my neck. Simon’s a brute, but he’s so, so gentle right now. As if I’m breakable - though I’m the opposite. Physically, at least.

It feels nice to be touched like this. Softly. I didn’t realize how much I missed the closeness we had when we were having sex. The sweet nothings murmured afterwards, and the way we held each other like we’d never let go.

He’s worked the sunscreen into my skin thoroughly, but he’s still cupping my face. His gaze is dark and intense. I force my breaths to stay even, try to calm the flutter of my undead heart. Usually, I’m the one yearning to devour him, but today it seems like the roles might have been reversed. 

Or maybe I just smell like the scones I picked up from Simon’s cafe for breakfast. (It’s probably that.)

I step away.

“I think that’s more than enough sunscreen.”

“Right,” he says, blushing. “Um, so. I researched all the rides. Did you know there’s one called the Nemesis Inferno? That’s basically our first kiss.”

We laugh and lace our fingers together. We argue about who will scream louder (I say it’s him because he’s got no shame, he says me because I’m dramatic.) I promise to float the whole ride with magic in case it fails. We make sure Snow’s wings are spelled tight - the last thing we need is them popping out midair and catching the breeze like a giant sail.

“We wouldn’t even need to go to the theme park if you’d just ride me,” Simon muses.

I choke on my Evian. “Pardon?”

“When I fly - I just figured out loop-de-loops.”

“Over my dead body,” I scoff, even though I’m kind of thrilled at the thought. I _may_ have identified a bit too strongly with Princess Jasmine as a child. “I’m sure vampires can survive fifty foot drops - I just don’t know that I’d want to.”

I’ve been to Thorpe Park once before, with Fiona when I was twelve. That was more than enough. She convinced me that the rides were probably going to collapse, and told me to have my wand at the ready. I was mentally running though hundreds of spells while waiting in line. Then, she pretended to be ill so I’d have to ride alone, though she admitted to faking just in time.

Fiona is enough of a roller coaster as it is. The mix of the two was too much.

You’d think that twelve and twenty aren’t that far apart, but something terrible must have happened to my body in the interim. (Puberty? Vampirism? Kidnapping, bullet holes, all of the above?)

Every ride makes me nauseous, and my neck is cramped and throbbing. The screams of Normal children are reaching a pitch only dogs and vampires can hear. I’m going to have a headache. I’m too old for this, and far too aware of my own mortality. It’s all too much.

But Simon is effervescent. I think this is the Normal equivalent of Simon’s entire existence - barely contained danger.

Simon’s frowning at the map. “Ah, yeah, just past the chip stand...it should be - right here!”

He grins as we approach the end of the queue.

“The Nemesis _Inferno_ ,” he says, wiggling his brows.

There’s about a hundred people queued up in front of us, and no shade til we’re halfway there. I unzip Simon’s bum bag and pull out my hat. (I tried **Stay put** , but it couldn’t handle the accelerations.)

“You’re very fascinated by this nemesis business, Snow.”

“It’s a weird name. Like, what else could it mean? Is that something other people do - have nemeses and kiss them in fires?”

“It doesn’t say anything about kissing, Snow. That’s all you.”

Simon looks up. The ride reaches its peak. Everyone’s upside down.

“What the fuck,” he breathes. “It _flips over!_ ”

“It flips over,” I echo, and swallow down the bile in my throat.

*

“That was _brilliant_!” Simon gushes, holding out his hand to help me out of my seat. I stagger forward, and he frowns in concern. “Are you alright, Baz? You look a little woozy. Is it the sun?” He checks his phone. “Almost fifteen minutes since the last time you put on sunscreen. You should just reapply now.”

The thought of Simon’s hands on me gives me a burst of strength I didn’t think I had. We step away from the flow of the crowd and Simon pulls the bottle out of his bag. He applies the sunscreen to my forehead, cheeks, and nose - so gently, it’s like he thinks I’m a butterfly and not an undead monster. When he rubs it into my chin, his finger brushes my bottom lip and lingers.

He’s staring at my lips now, and his mouth is just a little bit open. He flicks his eyes up at me, and he must see desperation in them, because he grabs my hair and leans in and —

I slap my hand over my mouth and run for the loo.

Once I make it to the toilet, I fall to my knees and start retching. My stomach is in knots and my head is spinning. Distantly, I hear the door open.

“Baz? Are you all right?”

I gag in response.

Simon’s hand is on my back, rubbing in soothing circles. I hear him rummage in his bag. Then he’s gathering my hair behind my ears and tying it back.

“There, love. Just let it out.”

His hand comes around to rub my stomach. He’s murmuring in my ear. “Shh, it’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

I didn't think that vampires could get motion sickness. I’ve been nauseous before - merwolf or snake blood will do that to you. But I can’t remember the last time I threw up. I must have been a child. I don’t think I will now, but I still feel like shit.

Simon holds me closer, his hand pressing into my stomach. He’s so warm; his touch is like a compress. I feel marginally better, even though nothing’s come out. I feel safe.

I could keep retching a bit longer, if that’s what it takes to keep Simon close.

But I swallow instead and squeeze his hand in my own. “I’m all right now, I think.”

He loosens his grip so I can stand up, but his arm stays wrapped around my waist.

“C’mon,” he says once we’ve both washed up. “Let’s get you some water.”

**SIMON**

I can’t believe how massively I’ve bollocksed this up.

Vampires have hyper-acute senses. I can’t imagine how it would feel for one to go belly up at the speed of the Autobahn. And Baz has been in the sun all day. He doesn’t take well to cold, sure, but we learned in America that he’s not made for the heat, either.

We hide out in the souvenir shop - it’s got AC - while Baz sips fizzy water. After a few minutes, he stands up straight and dusts off his trousers. “All right, Snow. What’s next?”

“Are you joking?” I respond. “What’s next is we go home.”

“We paid to come here for a whole day. Now let’s get going.”

“We’ve ridden all seven roller coasters, Baz. It’s just the wheels and drops and water rides left. I think we ought to head home.”

He must be feeling truly shit, because he lets it go without arguing.

The souvenir shop sells travel sickness tablets. They’re ridiculously overpriced and I consider nicking them, but Baz catches me eyeing the security camera and pulls out his card right away.

Once we board the bus, he leans against my shoulder and closes his eyes. I don’t even care who’s looking right now - I put my arm around him. The tablets make him drowsy, and he protests a bit when I wake him to change from the bus to the train. I’m glad he listened to me and didn’t drive. I would have had to drive Baz’s Jag home while he was drugged up, and I’d definitely crash it on the M25.

I can’t stop looking at him once we’re settled on the train. His head is resting on my shoulder, and his breaths are coming out slow but steady. He’s unbelievably beautiful. I haven’t watched him sleep like this since we were roommates at Watford. Back then, I thought I was watching him because I was afraid of him. Because I needed to know every single thing about him, and even then it wouldn’t be enough to save me.

Now I know there’s no saving me either way. I could spend my entire life learning every single thing about Baz, and I’d never get bored.

I can’t believe how much time I’ve wasted, afraid of my own feelings, tiptoeing around him. I feel like a tit for planning this disastrous date, but I have to admit that despite the way it’s ended, it’s the most fun we’ve had since we stopped assassinating dark creatures.

Maybe that’s what it was. What it always was. Not the adrenaline, but just this - being together.

Baz snores softly against my chest. I hold him so that he doesn’t get tossed around during the stops and turns, and I brush loose hairs from his face, and then - I press a quick kiss to his cool, clammy forehead. I feel like fireworks are going off inside my chest.

**BAZ**

When I open my eyes, it’s dark.

It’s not _dark_ though. I still don’t like complete darkness. Simon always has his blinds raised, and the city lights and the moon are enough for me to see by. There’s even a little nightlight plugged in; it has cutouts on the shade that project little stars all over the room. It’s ridiculous and childish and I love it.

Simon’s arms are wrapped around me, so I relish the closeness for as long as I can before my bladder and my thirst force me out of bed. We do sleep over at each other’s flats, so Simon keeps blood in the freezer for me. It’s wonderful. Although all we do is _sleep._

Simon stumbles into the kitchen just as I finish warming up some blood. He’s rubbing at his eyes and looking entirely too adorable in boxers and nothing else. (Simon sleeps shirtless now, because of the wings. It’s torture, though not as bad as it would have been when we were just roommates.)

“Feeling better?” he asks, slurring his words sleepily.

I face away from him and quickly chug the blood. Once I’ve wiped my mouth, I turn back around and answer. “Yes, I am. Thank you - and I’m sorry.”

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Simon replies. “I should have thought about your vampire senses. It was a shit idea.”

“No, it was a lovely idea. I had a lot of fun.”

Simon grins and holds out his hand. I take it and he tugs me closer, until he can tuck his chin along my collarbone. We just stay like that for a while, bodies pressed together and arms intertwined.

Simon pulls away just enough that we can look each other in the eye. He runs a finger along my bottom lip, and I let it fall open, just a bit. I realise my fangs are still out, and think hard about pushing them back in.

Simon leans closer, until we’re sharing the same air. “Are you gonna be sick if I kiss you this time?”

He doesn’t wait for my answer (which, fortunately, was a resounding _no_.)

The kiss is soft, familiar. Like our kisses hello and goodbye. It usually leaves me with pangs in my stomach, a belly full of yearning.

Except this time, Simon Snow bites my lip _hard_ and pushes me back against the counter.

**SIMON**

I’m doing it. This is happening. I’m full-on snogging Baz, in my flat, without a single corpse nearby. (Unless you count the chicken in the freezer.) He’s breathing harder, and his arse is backed up against the kitchen counter as I work my mouth down his neck. He slips a thigh between mine, and - yep, there it is.

I pull away and wrap my hands around Baz’s hips. 

“Let’s go to bed.”

Baz’s face falls. “We’re going to sleep again?”

“We’re not going to sleep,” I growl. “I just want to do this properly.”

The starry nightlight is on, but I switch on the bedside lamp too, so the room is bathed in soft golden light. Baz stands in the corner of my room, smirking, arms crossed, as I frantically attempt to smooth down the sheets on my bed.

“What are you doing, Snow?”

I give up and sink down onto the mattress. “Come here.”

He does.

I pull him onto the mattress, onto me. I try to say everything - _I’m sorry, I love you, I want this_ \- with my mouth and my hands.

He’s pliant above me, and I push hard against him. I want him to know that it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass. Not when we’re like this - not anymore.

Of course, I’ve bollocksed this up enough already by not wanting to use my words, so I decide that I _will_ tell him all of those things.

But later, because my mouth is pretty busy right now.

**BAZ**

I give Simon Snow everything that I have, and he gives it all back to me.

I never knew it could be like _this_ , as if we’ve got all the time in the world to explore each other’s bodies. Ever since the first time we kissed, it’s been frantic, hurried, stolen. That’s what passion felt like, to me. But I realise now - _this_ is passion. The slow heat that rises in me as I connect the dots between his moles with my tongue. The ache in my heart when he moans my name. The sound of his blood rushing in my ears.

I could do this forever. Just stay like this. Freeze this moment in time and touch Simon until he hasn’t got a past or a present or mind enough for all his bad thoughts.

I’ve never done this before - tried to kiss every single mole and freckle on his body. I’ve kissed every one on his face and his neck a thousand times. His hands, his arms. Sometimes his stomach or his chest or his thighs if I’m lucky.

But never all together. Never all at once.

I know there’s a million of them. How many stars are in the sky? There’s a hundred billion galaxies. If we could see every star, the night sky would just be light. But we don’t - we have to wait for the light to come to us.

I’d wait forever for Simon’s light.

“Baz,” he murmurs, and his legs fall open wider. I can’t believe this is happening - I can’t believe that he’s letting me do this. Usually, he’s completely in charge. He takes and takes and I give myself to him, because it’s what I want more than anything. He touches me - he touches me so _well_ \- but I rarely get to touch _him_.

So I’m going to take my time.

I pull off his t-shirt, and he doesn’t resist. He watches me with lidded eyes, and lifts up his arms to help me, but he doesn’t try to do it for himself. He lets me do that, for him.

I plaster messy kisses down his face, past his neck where I’m getting dizzy from the smell of his pulse. To his chest - three moles above the right nipple, four below. I kiss every single one. I connect the dots, running my tongue over his nipple, bracing for his reaction. He just sucks in his breath and nods. And I do it again.

His stomach is fluttering as I press my face into his belly. It’s soft and covered with light hair, and I love kissing it, reminding him that no matter what he thinks, he gets more beautiful every day.

And then I think about taking off his trousers. Just unbuttoning them, at least. But I don’t - I move to kissing his hips instead.

“Fuck, you’re such a tease,” he laughs, and I tweak his nipple in response.

“It’s been a month - let me enjoy this,” I say.

“It’s been a month - we’ve got like, thirty rounds to catch up on.”

But when I pull away, he doesn’t rush me. He laces our fingers together, and pulls me down for a kiss. I don’t try to hold myself above him. I collapse against his chest and tangle our legs together, so that every bit of us is touching.

“Take your shirt off,” Simon says, and I pull back, straddling his hips.

I take my time, like I’ve done with everything else. Simon’s holding my hips, squeezing so tight he could leave bruises if I had the blood in me. I slip my fingers into the waistband of my jeans, and tug my shirt out gently. I don’t break eye contact with Simon for a second. His mouth is open and his pupils are blown as he watches my fingers slip the buttons from their holes.

When my shirt falls open completely, Simon lets out a lovely little “ _Oh._ ” He runs his hands down my sides, palms my belly and traces my pecs. He tugs me forward until I have to catch myself from falling, and takes a nipple in his mouth.

I’ve never been allowed to be loud before. There was always someone nearby, some reason to stay hushed. But Penelope’s at her parents’, and I don’t give a rat’s arse what Simon’s neighbours think. So I let go.

“Shit, Baz,” Simon says, and he’s sucking kisses into my neck, against my clavicle, caressing my nipples while I tangle my fingers into his hair and hum in satisfaction. And then he’s got his hands on my arse, and he’s coaxing me downwards until the hardness in my trousers meets his.

It’s uncomfortable when we rub against each other - too tight and too warm in our trousers - but I let it go on for far too long because it also feels _good_.

I sit back on my heels and say, “Take off your trousers.”

And Simon, miracle of all miracles, grins. And then he does it.

There’s none of the finesse I had while undressing myself. Just some desperate flopping and kicking and wiggling, and then his trousers are off, and he’s nearly naked. And it’s not that I’ve never seen him naked before, either, but I’ve never had the time and the space to really look. There were always more pressing matters at hand - usually Simon’s hand, pressing against me.

I take off my trousers too, then, and we’re just in our pants, in Simon’s bed with the soft light of the lamp on our bodies and the little stars from the nightlight projected on the ceiling above us. Simon’s blankets are pooled at the foot of the bed, kicked off in his sleep because he only really keeps them here for me. His trainers by the door, his laundry in the hamper, my neatly folded pyjamas in the dresser drawer he saves for me.

He lays back down on the pillow, and his too-long curls spread around him like a halo. I gaze down at him, and he gazes back up, and then he takes my hand again and rubs his thumb around my knuckles. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking - that a year ago, I could never have hoped for a path that would lead to _this_ , imperfect as it may be.

It’s a work in progress. We’re a work in progress.

Simon bucks his hips up to grind against me, but I hold him down. He whines. He grabs at my wrists and tries to push my hands off of him. Instead, I take his hands and tangle his fingers into my hair.

Then I dip down, down, until my lips are hovering an inch above his clothed cock.

“Is this okay?” I ask, even though I want it so badly. It’s always Simon touching me. I want to be allowed to touch him like this.

“ _Yes_ ,” Simon responds, and I pull him out of his pants and take him into my mouth.

He fists his hands in my hair, tugs it the way he knows I like. (Isn’t it backwards, that I haven’t kissed all his moles, but he knows to tug on my hair?) I lick the moles on his prick - there’s never been light enough to see those properly - and take him into my throat, swallow around him and hold his hips down when he tries to fuck into my mouth. Not because I don’t like it, but because that isn’t what I want right now. That isn’t what this is.

I suck and lick until his cock is slick and dripping, and then I pull off. Simon takes his hand that’s in my hair and cups my cheek, and with a voice so tender I could cry, he says, “What do you want, love?”

And when I don’t reply right away, he pulls me back towards him, sets me down on my side so we’re nose to nose. Runs his cold toes along my calf.

“Anything, darling,” he says, and brushes my hair away from my face. “Anything you want.”

And I want to believe him. So I take his fingers in my mouth and suck them wet, and then I bring his hand down, behind my bollocks, and he groans and clutches my hip as his fingers breach me.

This itself isn’t new, but what I’m hoping it leads to is.

So he fills me up with his fingers and I stroke his cock, he massages my bollocks and we kiss until finally I’m moaning louder than I’ve ever let myself moan before.

As Simon moves down, he presses my thighs against my chest. Then his head of curls is bobbing up and down my cock, his fingers are sending sparks up my spine, and I want to explode.

****

**SIMON**

“Stop,” Baz gasps, and I freeze immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

I pull away, and bring my face all the way close to his, so that we’re close enough to be kissing but not quite.

I know what’s wrong - it’s me.

Not _me_ \- I believe now that Baz loves me, that I deserve him and we deserve each other. But he can’t trust me about this. He can’t trust that he can let go and ask for what he wants when we’re here, being soft with each other, without scaring me off. Because we _haven’t_ done this when we’re being soft with each other.

So I use my words.

“Anything you want, darling,” I say, and it’s mostly true - unless it’s some really freaky shit I haven’t even heard of, which I don’t think is the case. “I’m serious.”

He smiles. “I’m okay, I just didn’t want to come. We can do whatever you want, Snow. Everything, or nothing, or just...this.”

“My _name_ is Simon,” I say. “And I don’t want to do _nothing_. Everything, maybe, but I don’t know what that is.”

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“You’re the one who always tells me to use my words.”

“So much for poetically unsaid,” Baz huffs. And then he’s silent for a bit, which could be awkward, but we’re still kissing and touching and I don’t mind the silence, besides. Sometimes when I go to therapy I don’t say anything for the whole hour.

And then, finally, he kisses up my neck and whispers everything into my ear, and I think I’m going to black out as all my blood rushes to my prick.

**BAZ**

Simon flips me on my back so fast I don’t have time to feel embarrassed.

I know I _shouldn’t_ be embarrassed. I know that Simon is attracted to me - he’s made that very clear, if not through words then through actions. But it’s been a _month_ , and we’re rusty, and I’ve always known that I’m a bit disturbed. But it seems like he’s disturbed too - or at least, disturbed enough to attack me with this amount of enthusiasm.

I gasp as I feel his tongue press against my hole. And then he’s licking around my rim, and his wet hand is moving on my cock, or coming down to press against my perineum. It feels incredible - beyond what I’ve imagined, beyond when I’ve tried to recreate this on my own. I think it’s mostly that it’s _Simon_ , more than anything that he’s doing. That he’s listening to me and considering my feelings and what I want. That I can be vulnerable around him - even in these small ways, so far - and trust him to catch me when I fall.

It makes me think about the future. It gives me hope.

Simon Snow has always been my beacon of hope, a lighthouse on the shore when I was lost in the stormy sea. Even when his light had dimmed, I could see it. I believed that the clouds would part and he’d shine again. Brighter than before, even.

Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. But that’s okay. More than okay - it’s good. It means something, to be here with him as he heals. To heal _alongside_ him, because if the past year has taught me anything, it’s that even if I seem more put together on the outside, on the inside I’m just as messed up as he is, and I should probably try to work through that. (Because we match. We’ll always match.)

It’s better than just playing happy boyfriends. It feels like a trial by fire, a tough foundation that will weather whatever may come.

So that’s all to say, I’m trying not to cry as Simon presses his face against my arse, and it’s a new level of pathetic.

But his head of curly hair looks incredible sandwiched between my thighs. And I can’t help but let out the most humiliating noises, especially when he puts his hands under my arse and tilts it up so he can get closer, as if he can’t get enough of me.

And he keeps going and going like he’s never going to stop, until he’s turned me into a babbling, pathetic mess. At a loss for words, for the first time in my life. All I can do is beg for _more_ , because he’s got me teetering on the edge of something, and I want more than anything to tip over all the way. To take all of him, to press our bodies so close together that we’re one person, a circuit like we were when he shared his magic with me.

So I shove his head away, and bite back a moan at the sight of his red, spit-slicked mouth. I open his bedside drawer and find the tube that I hoped would be there. (I didn’t know for sure - but I’d rather not use magic for this.)

I warm the lube as much as I can in my cold hands and slick up his cock with it. I straddle him, and Simon places his hands on my hips, so gently, and watches me in awe. Like I’m the second coming of Merlin, like I’m something beyond just beautiful. Like I look at _him_.

And I exhale, and Simon rubs my hip soothingly, and I let the intensity of my desire overcome my inhibitions. And then I’m pressing down, and I’m terrified, because it feels _huge_ , but then it slides in and I lower myself, ever so slowly, and Simon stays perfectly still even though his jaw is clenched with the effort.

And I go down, inch by inch, and it presses against that spot inside of me, and I’m so full and it’s everything I ever fantasised about and _more_. And my body is already jelly by the time I’ve taken all of him, so I stay still and - Merlin. I can feel his pulse throbbing inside of me. His prick is full of blood and I’m heady with the smell of his arousal, and then - 

I feel it. I slap both hands over my mouth in panic. Because something I’ve never considered possible is happening right now, at the worst possible time, and all of a sudden I want to set myself on _fire_.

**SIMON**

At first, I think I’ve done something wrong. Like I’ve hurt him. But then I recognize that face, those gestures, and I have to laugh.

I put my hands over his, where they’re covering up his mouth - covering up his fangs - and squeeze them. His hands relax slowly and he lets them drop, and I have to gasp because he’s so beautiful.

He’s so worked up by having my cock inside of him for the first time that he can’t even keep his _fangs_ inside, something that he’s become so skilled at. 

Baz Pitch is coming undone.

Baz Pitch moved his hands away from his mouth.

Baz Pitch is _letting_ me see this - the worst thing about him. No - not the worst thing about him. The thing he hates most about himself, even though he shouldn’t, even though it’s just another thing that makes him perfect, another way in which we match.

“Fuck,” I say, and I run my thumb over his lips, let my finger skim one of his fangs - ever so gently. They’re gleaming white, long and tapered. They push against his lips, making them look plush and red, making his cheeks look fuller. I wonder if he’ll be able to close his mouth or whether he’s going to end up covered in his own saliva.

I’d want that. I’d want it a _lot_.

More than that, though, I want him covered in my _blood_. I saw those Normals in Vegas - the way their faces twisted in equal parts pain and pleasure, the way their pupils dilated and their eyes glazed over and they lost themselves completely for a few precious moments.

It would feel better if it was Baz. I _want_ to give him that part of myself. I want my blood to become his blood; I want to tie our hearts together, chamber by chamber.

I’ve never told him that.

Maybe I should.

But for now, I wipe away the wetness on his cheeks and tell him how I can’t believe how good he looks, that he’s beautiful and sexy and I’m so lucky to get to see him like this.

He’s so good. Even if he doesn’t believe it, he’s so, so good. The best thing I’ll ever have.

I run my hands down his body, and I cup his arse, and then he moves.

He rises up and comes back down and he’s so hot (so hot inside - warmer than I ever imagined he could be, and it’s because of _me_ ) and slick and tight and I feel like I’m going to suffocate on him, but not in a bad way. In a way that makes me feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. Like I’m not even in my body anymore, just lost in a haze of lust and pleasure.

His head is thrown back and his thighs are flexing with every motion. He’s squeezing my torso between them and I want to go just like this, crushed between them. He’s gasping and crying and panting, and he’s wiggling his hips, showing me exactly how he likes it.

And then he’s begging me to give it to him harder, and I plant my ankles against the mattress and thrust up against him. I hold him in place by his arse and work my way in and out of him, firm but still gentle, until my muscles are burning. That small discomfort is the only reason I don’t come, so I’m grateful for it.

And then I think about Baz coming - about him spilling all over my chest, and the way his face always twists in pleasure. I wonder how it would be different this time, now that he’s coming with me inside of him. Will I be able to feel it, against my cock?

The thought makes me dizzy.

But I want it, and I can’t hold off much longer, and this is the first time so I don’t want to go so long that the lube all drips out and it gets uncomfortable. So I roll his bollocks in my palm, and then jerk him off until he’s barely able to keep moving, keep himself from collapsing against my chest.

I put one hand against his sternum to hold him up so I can see his face. So we can stare into each other’s eyes as we go over the edge. And I use the other hand on his dripping cock, and we’re barely fucking anymore - he’s just grinding and clenching against me, sobbing, and then he tightens impossibly tight and his cock gets harder, just for a second, and then I’m covered in his hot come.

And - oh - he’s beautiful. His face is twisted and one fang is caught on his lip. His mouth is parted, and he says my name. My actual name. And then he tells me he loves me, and it’s not the first time but it still hits me like a lorry.

And then he collapses against me, and I roll us over, and he holds his thighs open for me as I thrust into him once, twice, and then I feel like I’m back in our old room, that day that I shared my magic with him and he gave me the stars.

**BAZ**

We catch our breaths, gently separate ourselves, hold hands and stare at the little projected stars on the ceiling. When I finally speak, I can’t make my voice as confident as I want to.

“So, did that only happen because of the adrenaline rush at Thorpe Park?”

Simon tucks his face into my neck, and I hesitate for a second before I wrap my arm around him.

“Um, so. Yeah, that was the plot. But--” and he lifts his head up and looks me in the eye, jaw squared. “I wasn’t scared, Baz. I was just _happy_.”

And then I’m crying, actually full on crying, because when was the last time Simon said he was _happy_?

**SIMON**

I think Baz’s tears are a good thing right now.

He’s given me so much of himself throughout our relationship. He’s opened himself up and trusted me when I didn’t deserve it, and yeah, sometimes he’s been a prick or a martyr or a terrible communicator, but so have I. (I’ve been much, much worse.)

And this whole thing has been ridiculous, but it’s been _our_ kind of ridiculous.

“I love you,” I say.

“I love you, too.”

(We’ve said it before, but not enough.)

(It’ll never be enough.)

He tightens his arms around me and says, “Maybe we should try skydiving next.”

And I kiss him and say, “Maybe we should.”

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on [tumblr](https://im-gettingby.tumblr.com)!


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